


Stolen Water

by theredspool



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Surprise Blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredspool/pseuds/theredspool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stolen water is sweet. A fill for inception_kink, Round 19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Water

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Chleb i woda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012888) by [Donnie_Engelvin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donnie_Engelvin/pseuds/Donnie_Engelvin)



They’d been working late and Eames had insisted on staying at Arthur’s.  
  
“You know bloody well I can’t afford a hotel until this job is over.”  
  
Arthur set his jaw. “Haven’t you been staying with Cobb?”  
  
“He’s visiting his mum. I didn’t want to be lonesome.” He batted his eyelashes and smirked. “And you’ve got a far better wine selection.”  
  
They worked into the night, checking and cross-checking every detail in the half-light from the stainless steel lamp on the side table. The hours ticked on, and by four AM they had forsaken the paperwork for the following day. Even after the bottle of wine, Eames poured them both a nightcap (helping himself to the Glenlivet 18 without asking, Arthur noticed) and they sat back on the chic square couch. Arthur leaned into the corner nearest the lamp, letting his glass dangle over the arm of the chair. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back.  
  
Eames watched him sideways. It was the most relaxed Arthur had looked since he’d known the old stick-in-the-mud. He told him so.  
  
“Well, Eames, that’s almost a compliment.” Arthur didn’t open his eyes. “It’s late—early—and this is good whiskey, so I suppose I’m letting myself enjoy it before another exciting day of risking my life for Dom Cobb.”  
  
“Your  _dream_ life, darling,” Eames corrected lazily.  
  
“Hardly my dream life.” He was smiling, though. He set the whiskey on the side table.  
  
Eames smiled, too, and downed his whiskey. He edged closer to Arthur and studied his face, his clothes—which even now were impeccable. Arthur’s idea of “dressed down” was a herringbone vest and rolled up sleeves. And those sleeves were Lanvin.  
  
Eames considered himself an appreciator of beauty, regardless of sex.  _Why limit your options?_  he’d told a blushing Ariadne once, with a wink. Arthur wasn’t a romantic beauty like Cobb, or a tragic, swainish beauty, like Nash had been. He was scientifically beautiful—carefully groomed, symmetrical, like a diagram of perfectly-styled decorum and professionalism.  _A bit prissy,_ he allowed, eyes lingering on Arthur’s perfectly manicured hand.  
  
Arthur’s breathing was getting deeper, longer. He’d been more tired than he’d let on, Eames observed.  
  
He remembered the first time they went under together, and the practical joke he’d played. He’d been a brunette in the training program, based on a barista he’d seen Arthur chat up, and he’d stolen a kiss from the stuffy point man before Arthur had the chance to pull away.  
  
Arthur was furious, of course, not because of the kiss itself, but because he was embarrassed he hadn’t acted quickly enough. He’d stalked away to sulk until the kick rode them out.  
  
Eames eyes flicked over to Arthur’s mouth, and down to the undone top button of his starched white shirt. He leaned over Arthur to turn out the light. Arthur stirred sleepily, and Eames hovered over his throat, smelling the fading notes of Arthur’s aftershave.

He leaned down and kissed the space between Arthur’s jaw and collar.  
  
He felt Arthur stir again. Eames put a knee on the couch to steady himself, and reached up to free another button, expose another inch of skin. He licked the spot.  
  
Arthur tensed this time. Eames waited. Arthur didn’t push him away. Eames smirked again and leaned in, undoing button by button of the shirt and vest and shirt again, running his tongue over the bare skin. Arthur still hadn’t moved, and his breathing was shallower now. Eames took this as a sign of encouragement and pressed his thigh into Arthur’s, humming in his throat as he licked Arthur’s nipple, which was pointed and hard against his tongue.  
  
Now he felt Arthur’s hips roll slightly, and heard a tiny exhalation that anyone farther away would have missed. Eames felt a hand ghost over the ribs on his left side and rest there. As he tasted the skin on Arthur’s stomach, Eames felt Arthur slide his hips lower, offering himself. Arthur was hard, he could tell that much easily. Hard and curious and excited and unsure, which Eames always liked about a male partner. They never knew they wanted it (at least, they never admitted it) until Eames drew it out of them with his mouth and his hands.  
  
It was like stealing that kiss and watching Arthur’s tongue dart unconsciously out for more.  
  
He knelt on the floor and unfastened Arthur’s trousers and glanced up in the darkness. He could see the light from the window reflected in Arthur’s open eyes. He paused a moment, eyes locked with Arthur’s, waiting. He counted to five.  
  
And he slid Arthur’s trousers over his hips, freeing his stiff cock.  
  
It was slender and lovely as him, Eames thought, nuzzling his nose against it. Arthur shifted, a short, impatient “ngh” escaping his throat. Eames closed his full mouth over the head and flicked his tongue. Both of Arthur’s hands were on his back now, pulling slightly at the cheap shirt. (Arthur had expressed his distaste for it earlier that evening, but didn’t seem to mind now.)  
  
He sank lower, taking it all in one, and Arthur let a true groan out this time.  _That’s it, darling_. Eames urged silently, licking him from base to tip, then engulfing him again. Arthur’s hands ran up his back, one crumpling his collar, the other tangled in his slicked hair. Arthur was rutting gently, eyes closed again, holding Eames’ head steady by the hair and fucking his wet mouth.  
  
Eames had to smile slightly around Arthur’s cock.  _Ever in control, that Arthur_. Eames reached down to squeeze his own cock through his trousers, then ran his hands over Arthur’s thighs, watching Arthur unfold under _his_  mouth, under  _his_  tongue. He couldn’t help but feel a wicked pride.  
  
Where was that detached, precise beauty now? It had transformed into something primal. This was nature, not science. Science was the rules. Nature was the reality. ( _Or the dream?_  He smiled inwardly.)  
  
He pulled gingerly out of Arthur’s hands and ran his teeth very gently over the head. Arthur moaned deeply, and his hips jerked in surprise when he felt Eames’ tongue on his balls. Eames undid his own trousers and stroked his cock a few times, humming over Arthur’s balls, making him squirm pleasantly.  
  
He stroked faster, sucking him into his mouth and bobbing swiftly, his tongue tickling the spot where the head and shaft met. Eames’ could hear Arthur’s building moans in his groin.  
  
“ _God..._ ” Arthur breathed.  
  
Nothing got Eames hotter than undoing a man.  
  
Eames knew a thing or two about people, having been enough of them. Many people denied themselves. Denying one’s identity or pleasure was a mistake one could rarely afford. So he had taken it upon himself to  _guide_  them. The women were willing—Eames was attractive and charming and respectful (he always called and even met up again).  
  
But men were a special challenge because they had so many rigid, pre-conceived notions about what they should like or want or be. Eames defied those notions.  
  
And he had never seen a man so wrapped up in the  _should_  as thoroughly as Arthur.  
  
Arthur’s breath quickened and his moans turned to heated murmurs of “Oh God, oh, yes,  _please_ , oh, Eames…!”, Eames felt his own orgasm rolling through his gut when Arthur gasped his name for the first time.  
  
 _Yes, it is me_ , Eames thought fiercely as Arthur’s come filled his mouth. His own poured over his fist shortly after. He swallowed.  
  
Arthur’s head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. His thighs twitched with aftershocks. Eames stood and looked down on him in the dark. Arthur didn’t open his eyes. Eames didn’t mind—the taste of his come was satisfaction enough. He stalked into the bedroom and undressed. If Arthur decided to join him, that was his decision. He climbed into bed, feeling quite like the cat who got the canary, and fell asleep.  
  
When he awoke, Arthur was already washed and dressed.  
  
“Morning,” Eames leaned against the island in the kitchen.  
  
Arthur’s back was facing him—he could see it tense. He didn’t meet Eames’ gaze when he shut the refrigerator door. “Good morning.”  
  
Eames pulled up a stool and leaned his elbows on the marble countertop. “What’s for breakfast?” He smiled good-naturedly.  
  
Arthur flicked his eyes up and back down just as quickly. “Whatever you like. You can go ahead and help yourself.”  
  
“Lovely.”  
  
He felt Arthur’s eyes on his back as he rooted through the pantry. He could sense Arthur’s confusion, practically hear his thoughts—wasn’t Eames going to say something? It was hard to believe he wouldn’t be taking the piss out of Arthur for years. This was blackmail material. Maybe he was biding his time.  
  
But Eames had no plans to murmur a word of it. He wasn’t a religious man, but he adopted this Proverb as his personal motto: stolen water is sweet, and bread eaten in secret is delicious.  
  
He wasn’t about to spill the secret.


End file.
